Frozen Souls

Chapter I / Infestation

Warnings: undertones of forced abuse / suicidal thoughts mentioned

(A/N: This chapter was redone because original fanfic sucks. I'll be redoing chapters while adding new ones.)

It was the squeaking cry of a door when the terror began. Horror held no new greeting, but neither did he. Despite nearly three years of this, each encounter with him felt like a fresh new torture. It didn't matter if alcohol decorated his face and coated his teeth; he always knows what power he possesses. In these times, I will never sleep. I only close my eyes, desperate for the sun to come and lust to take him out of this house. Almost every night his demonic presence haunts this place. Too bad for these walls, they will never see light nor life. Sometimes the walls talk to me, taunting me with the fantasy of escape, but then the furniture reminds me how deserving I am of this. All I've ever been is a burden; I am simply a waste of oxygen. I am nothing.

One day, I'll find the end of these days. However, the permanent ending of my presence will bring silence in this apartment. Lucky for everyone who dares know me, that day should be soon. If the bruises and brokenness don't take me, then I will. But then again, I suppose the power to find such an ending rests in many forms, but I'm too weak, just like he said.

Everything is just like he said. He says I deserve this life because I am worthless, so it is. I am weak, he says, so it is. Despite his vile aptitude and gruesome existence, I know he speaks truth. But I bet even the devil fears his existence.

It was the fumbling clatter of a doorknob which announced his entrance. There's a whole room between us, and maybe his dragging feet will trip on some useless item and shatter his head. His thick breathing could be heard from anywhere if you knew what it sounded like.

Once his feet tripped into the room of a bed and a million nightmares, I knew what to expect. I kick myself back against the wall, my exposed heels using whatever might they find to save me for a few more seconds.

His sickly eyes glared at me. With the broken whisper I so often echoed, I pleaded. It's the same scenario over and over; it's been this way for as long as forever. He comes in screaming about my uselessness or his disability to maintain an occupation or even just about the alcohol itself. Then, I curl in the corner, holding all my limbs together for fear they might fall off, and waiting for bruises to decorate the preexisting ones. And in final concordance, he does what he does best: destroys any bit of life I dared to have.

This time, he seems even sickly greener than ever. A foul smell emitted from the gashes which newly presented themselves along his neck. Flesh embellishes the open wound which oozes. Veins protrude, probably trying to escape the monster's body. His eyes, usually a dead squash yellow, now appear swirled and swashed, like a muddy puddle freshly stepped in. As he crawled along the floor, slithering up closer to entitle me to his wrath, the thick slobber and gray skin became more apparent. A growl escaped his lips. It was the purple and brown elapsing around his sockets which alerted me of the true infestation within him.

Purple didn't decorate his eyes. His face might have been sunken and his heart a solid stone, but sleep was never difficult for him. It was a gruel sickness that haunted his face, not color. Color is too good to ever be around people like us.

I've heard the whispers about this disease, whenever the radio is on for a few seconds before fear shuts it up. As a child, before I was forced to grow up and into my present state, I had heard. But I had heard through a child's mind, and I have heard from his child mouth every so often, when his slurred words reveal something forbidden about the world. Anything involving outside this apartment isn't supposed to exist to me. The only good thing about his sloshed mind was his occasionally spilled secrets.

If he found out I ever knew even the little I know, I'm sure everything terrifying would come. Sometimes I often fear that the curtains will blow open and show me something I shouldn't see. Then the windows will tell of my illegal actions.

Stumbling forward, his feet seemed heavier than the rest of him, dragging out each step he took towards me. I screamed for help; I screamed for him to stop; I just screamed. I know screaming proves useless, but it made the upcoming death seem less like defeat. Like maybe, for once in my life, I'd be fighting back.

Gripping to the wall, I prepared for the light to disappear from my eyes. Despite the calices, yellowed nails, and bruises decorating my hands, I covered my eyes. Dying while looking at the shadows would be better than dying while looking at him. He stared at me, no longer with any humane pieces left; his sloshy eyes corrupted me to the core.

In between screaming, I heard a gunshot, disrupting the violent scene.

Shaking, I hesitated opening my eyes. His growling lust suddenly silenced, but the overwhelming sense of endangerment did not. Simultaneously I was frozen in shock but unable to stop shaking.

A strong ring hung thick in the air after the shot.

In frightened anticipation, slowly I lowered the black and blue palms covering my eyes. My teeth clenched in unison with my fits; my nails digging into my hands. I'm not even sure if I'm breathing I'm so petrified.

In this shadow-filled land, another set of eyes peer through the doorway: gallantly soft chocolate eyes, holding galaxies of color with wonder and life. The beholder of those eyes stepped in, holding a gun and a solid look of determination and readiness. In the slowest seconds of my life, the young specimen rushed over, pushing the abusive body aside and trying to pull me up. My body felt weightless to me, like all connections to my nerves were severed. I was lifted up, feeling numb, as if the world spins on its concurrent time but I've been ticking on a separate clock.

The rescuer existed as a young man. All I could intake about him were his tattered clothes and dry lips, which seem to moving but I'm too lost in my head to focus on what's falling out. His stature, skin clinging to bone mostly, seemed strong due to broad shoulders and tough apparel. When my eyes finally traveled to his face, I noticed the scars sitting along his left side. A clenched tension revealed his sharp jaw. Everything about him seemed ragged and from war, but that's not what I remember of the world. But I barely knew the world three years ago.

Finally the words caught up to the movement of his mouth.

"Are you okay?" he clearly stated, as if he was repeating a simple instruction to a child.

I nodded, but even words can't really describe the occurrence. His eyes stick to my hands, which I assume are still vigorously shaking.

"Are you hurt?"

Shaking my head, mostly in a nervous clatter, we step away from the dead. Immense weight seemed to fade off of my conscience, but it was quickly replaced by a freshly dark mental stigma. I guess I'm okay, but I don't really know what okay is.

"I'm sorry I-… I had to, he was diseased. If he hasn't already, he'll turn into one of- one of them." He spoke as if escaping a trauma. Panic on his face did not sit very steadily. He seemed concerned, but over several things along with this nonsense he's concocted confuses me.

I suppose my face entails confusion, because he starts saying things I've never heard before.

"The outbreak, you know?" He started. "-the one that started maybe 2 years ago? I mean that's when it really started I guess, but it kinda started several years back, I don't know it's kinda complicated. Well, it's got him too. Almost everyone's getting it… Looks like we've escaped so far, but I've been hiding in a sanctuary of a camp- set up in a province outside of the main part of our city." Even though he seemed so full of knowledge in this alleged event, my face still showed uncertainty.

He started saying something again, but the growl of the abuser startled us, causing him to aim his gun and shoot again. In a frantic frenzy, he rushed me out of the apartment. Or at least he tried. He was running and had too much energy to contain, but my monotone presence didn't add to the excitement. In his hurry, he kept saying stuff like, "we've got to go before more come!" and "I'll explain it all in the truck!"

My unchanging expression alerted him. He nearly begged for me to hurry out the apartment, but truth be told, I couldn't find the motivation or energy to do much. In the slow process of my movement, he pulled out of his dirty, oversized coat a knife and handed it to me 'in case I need it.' I still don't get it, but it doesn't matter anymore. There's no more purpose for me. My only cause was to be there for him, but now this 'disease' has captured his mind, and killed him.

Eventually I convince myself to walk quicker- for the rescuer's sake. With every ounce of movement, my body aches. Mostly I just follow him, since I've forgotten how to escape this haunted home for men like the one I lost. Once we reach down the several flights of stairs, the saving boy points towards to exit saying something. Ignoring the breathlessness and heavy heart I hold, I walk faster than ever to the entrance to the outside. The world, which I've been stuck missing for years, is now so close.

I remember it as a soft place, ideal for the arrogant imagination I once held. My child eyes saw it as green and full of wonderful things. I hope the grass is still there; I hope the sky is still out; I hope the moon still casts its arms around the world every night.

Once the doors fling over from my frail composer escaping the building, I see what the world actually is. It's not what I remember.

During our battle to rush, I stopped myself, standing still in a hallway I'd never seen. The walls weren't like I remember; they were aged and faded. The smell wasn't what I remember; it's old and unpleasant.

"We've got to go, we've got to go!" He rushed, falling back almost to come and get me.

"What's your name?" I spoke.

Baffled almost, he looked at me in great surprise. It's like he assumed I could't speak. "J- Jack. and, um, yours?" He was still in a hurry.

"Elsa." I haven't said my name in years, its uncomfortable to say it now. All I know is him saying it. Him, the dead undead monster. An abuser to me for three years. He was Hans.